Someday You Will Be Loved
by Mitsukaii
Summary: I gazed at her right in the eyes, drowning in the innocent blue I didn't deserve, whispering, "Someday, you'll find someone to love." She glared at me in disbelief and tearfully demanded, "Why can't it be you?"


**Author's Note:** For years, I've been wanting to write a Degrassi fanfic. But I could never come up with a good enough idea until now! This story will focus on Mark "Fitz" Fitzgerald and Clare Edwards. So yes, folks, it's a Flare! Don't get me wrong, I'm also a fan of Eclare, but there seems to be enough of that out there. If you're sensitive to excessive cursing and mature themes, please turn back now. Also, if you're too in love with Eli Goldsworthy, you might not enjoy it much. Eli is one of my favorite characters, but this story is told from Fitz's point of view, so of course anything regarding Eli won't be too pleasant. Another thing: Vegas Night and the promo bit with Fitz showing up at Clare's door in the rain is what inspired this story, but other than that, I doubt it's going to have any correlation with the future episodes… since, y'know, I have no idea what's going to happen in the next season. xD Well, I hope you enjoy this fic, I promise it'll be good.

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**Someday You Will Be Loved  
****Chapter 1**

_There's nothing to keep my fingers warm.  
_- "Title and Registration" by Death Cab for Cutie

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Red, blue. Red, blue, white. Those rotating police car lights were bugging the hell out of me, making my head spin, making me want to throw a fucking tantrum in this _godforsaken _cramped vehicle. I closed my eyes. It didn't help. My stomach was churning. My tongue was dry. My throat still burned from whatever that punk Eli slipped into my drink. What the hell _was_ that shit? And what more did he want from me, exactly? You know, I thought we'd made amends when he agreed to make me that fake ID… well, that turned out _fantastically_. The guy's a douche. I mean, yeah, _I'm_ a douche. But I don't go around Degrassi parading like a wannabe badass, like some sort of gothic _poser_. I don't feign sarcastic charm. For me, being sardonic comes naturally. For him, he only looked constipated trying to appear all dark and mysterious and shit.

I'd had enough of that pretentious emo child, that Eli Goldsworthy. I wanted to punch the living daylights out him, so hard that it'd knock off his ever-fucking-present smirk and stupid guyliner. What kind of self-respecting dude wore _eyeliner_, for Christ's sake? Since when did _outlining_ your goddamn _eyes_ and painting your _nails_ give off a message of toughness or "self-expression"? He was practically channeling Avril Lavigne.

"Damn it," I grumbled, pressing the back of my head against the sticky leather of the police car's backseat. Pulling that knife stunt in the hallway didn't turn out to be such a brilliant idea after all. Sure, I wanted to teach that bastard a lesson, and yeah, it was funny as _hell_ when he nearly pissed himself, but I was probably going to spend the night in jail because of it… with nothing decent to eat. My stomach was already pretty much devouring itself.

Sweat dotted my upper lip. I ran my tongue over it. That's life. Sour, salty, bitter. Life for me, at least.

When I heard faint voices outside of the car, my eyes blinked open. There they were, the golden couple, standing side by side. Eli had his hands shoved into his pockets, Clare had her arms folded in front of her. I raised an eyebrow and smirked to myself before ripping my gaze away from her. She looked genuinely concerned, that dumb little girl.

Well, she wasn't dumb. She was one of the smartest girls in Degrassi, as far as I knew… if not the smartest. I don't know exactly why, but there was something attractive about a girl with smarts. Yeah, the idea of a girl who actually _knows_ what she's fucking _doing_ is a definite turn-on for me. I'll shamelessly admit that. Alright— maybe not _shamelessly_. In fact, let's just keep that on the down low, yeah? You'd think an underachiever like me would be inclined to hit on the ditzes. Who's to say I don't? Fitzy gets what he can. But I'll be honest. If I were to ever stoop so low and let myself be in a serious relationship for once, I wouldn't take just _any _girl with a functioning brain. I'd want to be with someone smart. And classy. And pretty. But when would that ever happen? When do good things actually happen to me? That's right, you guessed it: _Never fucking ever._ So I try not to think about it too often. You can't have high expectations, not when you're me.

My totally insightful thoughts were interrupted by a thick clicking noise. The car doors were now unlocked. A chubby policeman with dark hair pulled open the door in the front and slipped into the driver's seat.

"Alright," sighed the cop. I grimaced and stared at the fat bulges rippling from the back of his head, down to his neck. He smelled like stale fries and black coffee. "We're heading down to the station, Mark."

It's _Fitz_, not Mark. Bitch.

"Home sweet home," I muttered, lifting the corner of my mouth in a sadistic half-smile. I lifted my arms and folded them behind my head, making myself cozy for the rest of the ride.

I'm only barely seventeen, but I've gotta say, my permanent record is pretty damn impressive. It's fucking _thick_, almost as thick as my… Anyway, I practically _live_ for the times authoritative pricks sit me down just so they could dramatically slam the fat folder on the table in front of me, as if it would suddenly make me regret my life decisions. They never get the response they want from me. No winces, flinches, or sincere apologies. Just a careless smile to bring forth some of their frustration. I'm a delinquent, yeah. I'm going nowhere in life, yeah. Fucking _deal_ with it.

This time, the authoritative prick that presented my file was a woman. She introduced herself but I didn't catch her name. I was too busy staring at her rack, wondering why she even bothered to work at a police station if she could easily make bank at a goddamn strip club with jugs and a body like hers. She sat in front of me with disappointment shining in her eyes, and for a moment I thought I ought to feel a little bad because she was spending a Friday night dealing with a troublemaker like me. But I didn't feel any remorse at all. Oh, well. Can't say I didn't try.

She flipped open the heavy manila folder, rifling through the papers with her manicured nails. Exhaling tiredly, she began reading off my previous cases. Nothing like reminiscing the good ol' times, right?

"Petty theft," the stripper should-be began, leaning back in her chair and furrowing her brow. "Forgery, vandalism…"

I had to bite back a laugh as I basked in my immoral memories. C'mon, that forgery thing was back in the eighth fucking grade. And I could hardly remember the case of vandalism. All I could recall was a really dark night, being drunk off my ass with Moose, shaking up nearly-empty cans of spray paint and "decorating" the side of The Dot. It was probably _awesome_.

"You were also recently arrested for having a fake ID," stated the woman, as if I didn't know. Of course I knew. It was something I'd never forget and always regret— trusting that punk ass emo kid, that eyeliner-wearing wannabe who thought he was the shit. "Why in the world would you have a fake ID with the information of a 'Most Wanted' criminal, Mark?"

It's _Fitz_, not _Mark_. Goddamnit, people these days.

"What can I say?" I answered dully, tweaking my head to the side to crack the bones at my sore neck. There was a satisfying popping sound. "It's the closest I could get to actually being my _role model_."

Alright, so that was a little harsh. The criminal I resembled had apparently killed several of his neighbors. But I was cranky and hungry and sleepy, damn it!

"And now you're here because you threatened a classmate with a knife," she continued, blatantly ignoring my smartass comment. She sighed and shook her head. "Mark—"

"Could you call me Fitz?" I cut her off lowly, narrowing my eyes in annoyance. "Mark's my father's name."

"Fitz," the woman restarted awkwardly, looking away as she picked up a fountain pen and began scribbling on a paper what was probably some nonsensical _bullshit_, "I was told you never meant to stab the boy, just _scare_ him. Now, why would you want to do that?"

"He gets on my nerves."

"He… gets on your nerves…?" she echoed, as if she didn't fucking _get it_, and I shut my eyes so she wouldn't see them roll in irritation. Was that difficult for her to understand? Damn. Maybe this was why I liked smart girls.

"Yeah," I answered shortly, reopening my eyes and staring right at her with the most serious expression I could muster.

Forty-three hours. Forty-three _glorious_ hours. That's how long I was hanging out in the police station. Some of the hours were spent being investigated and interrogated and photographed, and some of the hours were spent lounging in a very, very familiar stank cell. I didn't even want to eat the pathetic excuse for food they gave me. It was fucking _mush_. They said it was made of carrots and peas, and was actually pretty "appetizing and healthy." Carrots and peas, my ass. Had one bite of it— tasted like shit, or whatever shit tastes like. I was so close to throwing the rest at the wall, but I didn't exactly want to risk staying there longer.

Mom bailed me out, which was pretty damn surprising considering we hardly had any money. She didn't say anything as I was released to her, she didn't say anything during the car ride home, and she didn't say anything when we arrived at our run-down apartment. It was nothing new, so it didn't bother me in the least. We hardly spoke in the first place. The only thing she let me know as she exhaustedly retired into her room was that I was on house arrest. Fucking _peachy_.

But since when was I someone who followed the rules? In the months that followed, I'd sneak out to chill with Moose, Owen, and Bianca. It was a fucking cinch to get out of the apartment since my mom worked two jobs; I wondered if it occurred to her that I'd go against her rules (as usual) and leave anyway, or if she even fucking _cared_. Well, I doubted it.

Being my partner in crime, lovely Bianca was gracious enough to bring alcohol whenever she met up with me. But she gets a little fresh, sometimes. I guess I can't blame her. She's easy on the eyes, and she fucking _knows _it, so I guess she feels like it all has to go _somewhere_, if you know what I mean. So there I was, leaning against the brick wall in the alley next to Bianca's apartment complex, wearily staring up at the overcast sky with eyes evidently glazed with drunkenness. Bianca kept nuzzling against me, but couldn't a guy just relax and _stare_ at the fucking _sky_ for just _one_ moment of peace? Apparently not.

"You poor baby," Bianca purred, resting her head in the crook of my collarbone, pressing her lips against my neck. She left a sticky, pink mark on my skin. I hated her juicy lipgloss. It looked nice on her, but when it came to making out, it felt like glue. I thought back to the time we had that "friends with benefits" phase— which clearly wasn't completely over. She was obviously drunker than I was, to be feeling _this_ horny. Lately, she'd been nothing but a sister in my eyes. It felt wrong.

I took another swig of beer, curling my tongue in my mouth at its strength and bitterness. I nearly toppled over and almost dropped the glass bottle as Bianca shoved her body against mine, pressing me against the brick wall. I sighed, shaking my head and prying Bianca off me with my free hand.

"C'mon, B," I said grumpily. "We can't do this."

By the look on her face, I instantly knew I'd made a mistake. I'll admit that Bianca can be pretty intimidating when she's angry, but when she's an angry _drunk_, it was always best to steer clear from her path. It was too late, though. I was already standing right in the middle of that path.

"What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?" she drawled angrily, her mass of brown curls falling over her bloodshot eyes. She pushed her hair away, stumbling toward me. "Don't you think I'm _pretty_?"

"God, DeSousa, look at yourself," I told her quietly, containing my exasperation. She was a goddamn mess, that girl. I moved away from her again, intensifying her anger. "You need to go home."

"Don't you _dare_ tell me what to do," Bianca cackled, grabbing an empty bottle of beer and clumsily swinging it at me. I widened my eyes and dodged the glass, groaning as it shattered against the wall next to us. She drunkenly demanded, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

I decided that I didn't want to deal with her anymore. I turned away, but just as I was doing so, the bitch grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back with a surprising amount of strength. I glared at her, commanding her to tell me what the _fuck_ she wanted— and if it was any sexual favors, she wasn't getting _any _from me— well, that pissed her off to no end, pissed her off enough to make her whip her _fucking_ hand across my _fucking _face and I swear… it wouldn't have hurt as bad if she weren't wearing that damn diamond-studded ring. It was sharp. Sharp enough to create a small gash under my right eye, next to my cheekbone.

Call me a pussy or whatever you want, but at that moment, I decided to run. I wasn't about to fight a girl. Especially Bianca. She was being catty but she was still one of my closer friends.

And because I've always had such a _wonderful_ streak of _sheer _luck, the gray sky decided it was the _perfect _moment to pour rain in heavy bullets, relentless and icy to the touch as I ran and ran. I brought a hand to my face, feeling the cut, feeling the sting, seeing the blood. Whatever. The weather was frigid enough to numb every damn part of my body.

I had _no_ fucking idea where I was going. None at all. Alcohol was racing through my bloodstream, my heart was pounding in my head, and in the darkness and flickering streetlights and falling sheets of water, I couldn't figure out where my apartment was. Suddenly, a knot pulled tight in my throat, and I felt an unfamiliar burning sensation at my eyes— something I hadn't felt in ages, something I hadn't felt since I decided my name was Fitz, not Mark.

_Don't fucking cry._

Then the inevitable curb came, the curb that seemed to be placed there _just_ so that I could _not_ notice it, catch my foot on it, and trip over like a klutz. I collapsed into the road, right into a puddle. It was definitely the _cherry_ on top of a fantastic night. Wincing, I pushed myself up to my feet, blearily examining my surroundings as I panted. The least I could do was find a place with shade to shield myself from the rain. A bus stop, a porch, a _tree_— anything. Anything just to get out of the rain.

That's when I saw the bike. Don't ask me why, but I knew that bike well. It was _her_ bike, and it was right there, resting on the front porch of the house several feet away from me. I couldn't believe my eyes, and I could _hardly_ believe what I was about to do.

Gingerly, I stumbled to the front door, taking care to not trip over anything else on my way there. I rang the doorbell and held my breath. _You're drunk, Fitz. You're drunk and you have no idea what you're doing, but you know it's going to blow up in your face later. Get out of there, get the hell out of there, you idiot!_ My thoughts ran like a marathon, but my body and feet wouldn't budge. I heard the click of a lock being undone, and for some reason my heart almost burst in my chest.

The door opened. A flash of lightning shook my bones.

And there stood Clare Edwards, staring at me all doe-eyed and surprised, with her perfect auburn ringlets and porcelain skin glowing in the pouring night. I nearly died on the spot, right there in the pelting rain, catching my breath from all the running I'd done. She looked like a goddamn angel, and for a moment I thought I was falling in love— but we all know I'm incapable of doing that.

Love? What a load of ridiculous bullshit.

I knew I was making a terrible mistake. But it was too late to turn back.


End file.
